Free Ashes to Dust (Las Vegas Mystery) by Rex Kusler Page A

depends on the casino.”
    “What’s the main drag in a downtown, Dennis? Main Street. We’re playing Main Street Casino rules—no re-splitting aces.”
    “Boys,” the old woman interjected. “We’ve got company.”
    They both turned their heads toward Snow, their faces wrinkled in matching frowns.
    “What’s he selling?” scar-face asked, staring at Snow. “He looks like a vacuum cleaner salesman. I already bought one of those fancy vacuums forty years ago. Cost me a fortune and wasn’t much better than a Hoover.”
    “He’s not selling anything,” the woman insisted. “He’s a homicide detective—somebody got killed.”
    “Who? Who got killed?” scar-face asked.
    “Dennis, you sound like an owl,” the other twin observed.
    Scar-face slid his chair back from the table, stood up, and ambled over to Snow, offering his hand. “I’m Dennis Ball, Detective. This is my wife Darla.” He motioned toward his twin, sitting at the table. “And that’s my brother Donnie. He lives across the street. But he’s always here.”
    “I’m Jim Snow, but I’m not a homicide detective,” Snow said, letting go of Dennis’s hand. “I’m a private detective.”
    “No kidding,” Dennis said. “I’ve never met one before. How did you get into that line of work?”
    “I spent a lot of years with Metro as a homicide detective. Got tired of it, so my partner and I thought we’d give it a try.”
    “And how do you like it?”
    Snow shrugged. “It’s like anything you think you might want to do for a living—once you start doing it, it begins to suck.”
    Dennis grinned and nodded. He waved a hand in the direction of his brother. “Donnie and I decided to start our own plumbing company—forty-four years ago. Seven days a week we worked. Middle of the night we’d get calls and have to go out. Frozen pipes, sewers backed up…all kinds of stuff. Once we got the business going, we couldn’t get out of it. What else we gonna do for money, right? You can’t just shut it down and go to college. Where would the money come from for that?”
    “Ah, Dennis, it wasn’t that bad,” Donnie countered. “There are worse jobs.”
    Dennis gave him a dismissing wave and put his hands on his hips. “Well, sure there are, but you’re missing the point, you pinhead. I’m just trying to add to the conversation here.”
    “So am I,” Donnie insisted. “You just always want everybody to shut up so you can do all the talking.”
    “Boys,” Darla said. “Let’s not do this in front of company.”
    “What company?” Dennis said. “He’s a homicide detective. He could care less—”
    “He’s a private dick,” Donny corrected. “He just told us that. Look who’s calling the kettle stupid.”
    Dennis shook his head and looked at Snow. “Can you imagine working with that yokel for forty-four years? Darla and I moved down here to try and get away from him, and what’s he do? He buys the house across the street from us. He’s over here every morning before breakfast, starting it up.”
    Darla pointed a finger at her husband. “And you love every minute of it. You can’t wait for him to get here. If he isn’t over by seven, you traipse over there to get him up.”
    “He’s old,” Dennis said. “I’ve got to make sure he’s not dead.”
    Snow chuckled. “Where are you from?”
    “Huebner, Minnesota,” Donnie announced. “And I don’t miss it one bit.”
    “I miss the loons,” Darla said.
    “I don’t understand why,” Donnie said. “You married one.” He slapped himself on the thigh and cackled.
    She gave them both a dismissing wave and headed into the kitchen.
    “I grew up in Abbott,” Snow said.
    Dennis arched his eyebrows. “I’ll be damned. That’s, what, twenty miles from Huebner?”
    Snow grinned and nodded.
    Donnie’s expression perked up. “You spend much time at Deebs Lake?”
    “Oh yeah,” Snow said. “We were there most weekends in the summer. We had a pop-up camper, and